


Dark (War)

by Aryas_aria



Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: AU- Trojan War, F/M, Major Charater deaths, loosely based on Trojan War, no book or show spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22421719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: Jon is Achilles, Arya is Briseis during the Trojan War
Relationships: Jon Snow/ Arya Stark
Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612894
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Dark (War)

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based Westerosi telling of the Trojan war: 
> 
> Jon (Achilles), Sam (Odysseus), Gendry (Ajax), Edric Dayne (Patroclus), Aegon (Menelaus), Rhaegar (Agamemnon), Daenerys (Helen), Arya (Briseis), Robb (Hector), Bran (Paris), Alys Karstark (Andromache), Theon Greyjoy (Diomedes), Rickon (Aeneas), Ned Stark (Priam)

“You gave me peace in a lifetime of war.” - Achilles, _Troy_

***

When they bring the girl to his tent, he knows right away that she is of the blood. She wears a priestess robe, for Apollo, the sun god in the old faith, but something in the way she fights them lets Jon know she is more than just a servant.

“Unhand her,” he says, Aegon is the first to let go, not bristling at all at the command though he is the heir to their father’s throne, though it is _his_ wife who has been stolen. It matters little, crown prince or no, Aegon is nothing compared to Jon, Best of the Westerosi, _Azor Ahai_. And if the fates are true, Jon will die winning this war while his brother will go on to be king. Aegon can stomach taking commands for a little while if that is to be his future.

Edric Dayne follows soon after, that blushing and bright boy, always looking to Jon for guidance and friendship, perhaps the best of his companions on this hellish journey. Oh there is brilliant and cunning Sam Tarly as well, more brains than brawn; and Gendry Baratheon, brute strength and esteem both; or even bold Theon Greyjoy, but none of them seem to grasp the measure of him quite like Ned does.

“May the gods curse you all,” she spits, venom in her words as well as her face and oh, she has such lovely grey eyes. Grey eyes, like his, like his mother. He _knew_ she was of the blood, the Stark blood, a descendant of the First Men, a demigod in her own way.

“I tried to tell them to be gentle,” he says, not at all phased by her hatred, “but it seems you have been hurt.” He walks to her slowly, and she does not flinch, even when he lifts a finger to tenderly touch at a bruise on her cheek. He respects her immediately for that, for the fierceness in her person even now.

“This is war,” she says stubbornly, “the least I can do is bleed like the rest of my people.”

“Leave us,” he commands, and swiftly they do, until it is just Jon and the priestess. “You’re Arya Stark.”

“Mighty Jon Targaryen,” she mocks, “brains as well as brawn.” He lifts a confused eyebrow at her and she continues. “Sansa is married to your countryman, Willas Tyrell. And I imagine you remember enough of your mother to see the resemblance, so that lets you know I am a Stark, and since Robb wouldn’t dream of letting Alys anywhere outside of Winterfell, that leaves only me.”

“I’ve heard of your sharp tongue,” he laughs, unaffected to which she huffs in annoyance, “but experiencing it is something else entirely.” He takes her hands softly, idly noticing the way her delicate fingers brush against his callous ones, and unbinds the ropes. Her wrists have begun to chafe and it makes his jaw jump in anger. A priestess, a Stark, a woman besides, and the fools he has to deal with have mistreated her thus? It makes him wonder at the treatment girls of less status are enduring at the hands of his father’s mighty Southron army.

 _His father_.

The thought of the man grips him with terror just now as he looks into Arya’s eyes.

Rhaegar Targaryen has never met a woman he couldn’t have, Jon himself is proof of that. His mother, Lyanna Stark, had been a demigod of the Old faith, his father blessed by the New and thought it his right to proposition his mother for her hand, no matter the fact that he was already wed to Elia Martell. Before leaving Jon for the shelter of the Isle of Faces, his mother had dipped him in the waters of the Blackwater Bay, and her last “gift” to him had been the knowledge of his destiny, of glory and death and a legacy that will endure the test of time. She had not mentioned Arya Stark, yet here she was.

“What will you do to me?” She interrupts his turbulent thoughts, slight panic in her eyes but not her voice.

“It’s what you will do,” he detaches himself from her, dropping her hands carefully. “You will make sure the tent is cleaned and that it is well stocked with food. There is to be water in that pale,” he points to a shiny pot in the right corner, opposite his bedroll,” at all times. Is that understood?”

She looks to him in confusion. “Is that is?”

“I may be a killer,” he laughs humorlessly,” but I’m no savage. I’d never take a woman against her will.” The implication in what he means is there, but she will not rise to the bait. He is a little disappointed at that, but they have time. She is not going anywhere; he will make sure of that.

She picks up the pale stubbornly, dirty water sloshing out from either side at the force she had used. She leaves the tent in a huff, going toward the direction of a spring. He silently falls in step behind her, staking his claim that she is _his_ prize for all the men to see by gripping her hip tightly as she walks. He hopes it is enough to keep them all at bay.

***

“Ignore the politics,” Sam pats his arm in a final farewell, as Jon ducks inside his father’s tent. Aegon is there as Rhaegar sits on a great chair signifying his rank. It seems his father is expecting a quarrel, if the little smirk on his lips is anything to go by. Jon vows he will not rise to the bait today, not after the tiresome battle they’ve had. All he wants to do is go back to his tent, to bathe with Arya and then tease her temper, perhaps she will even allow him more than one kiss tonight.

“It seems you’ve won some great victory, here today,” Jon finds himself saying pleasantly, though it doesn’t erase the worry on Aegon’s face.

“Yes,” Rhaegar laughs, “the Wolfswood belonged to Eddard in the morning, it belongs to Rhaegar in the afternoon.”

“You can have the forest, I didn’t come here for wood,” he lets a little agitation slip into his voice, but it is nothing compared to his father’s arrogance.

“No, you came here because you want to be remembered. But you did not win this victory, history remembers kings, not Jon Targaryens! And when we finally breach the gates of Winterfell, I’ll burn their old gods and build monuments to the Seven, I’ll carve Rhaegar on everything there. My name is written in stone; yours will be written in sand for the waves to wash away.”

“Careful, king of kingdoms, first you need a victory,” he bites back. Truly, he does not understand where the goading is coming from. He has not been overly brash these past few days, in fact, with Arya’s fiery presence in his tent, he has been more pleasant by far.

“Your men sacked a Godswood a few weeks back, did they not?” Rhaegar veers off topic again, and Aegon mutters a prayer under his breathe.

“Yes,” Jon answers, apprehension gripping his heart, “you want gold, offerings? Take what you wish, it’s my gift to you,” he hopes against hope that it will be enough.

“I already have,” Rhaegar laughs, calling the guards to drag a struggling Arya inside the tent. Her lip is busted and fresh bruises litter her skin, and the tears along her dress make Jon’s stomach churn. She sniffs a little as Rhaegar whispers, “the spoils of war.”

“I have no quarrel with you good sers” Jon says to the guards, as calmly as he can, “but if you don’t release her, you’ll never see the South again.”

“Jon,” Aegon calls, coming to his side fearfully. “Forget the girl, this isn’t about her. It’s about _Daenerys_ , we must get her back. I need you to see reason. Let father do as he pleases, help _me_ , your brother.” His pleading is sweet, but it falls on deaf ears.

Rhaegar summons more guards as Jon unsheathes Blackfyre. “Stop,” it is Arya to scream at them, to rage and reason and allow herself to stay hostage to a man like his father. He should have known his father would come for her! A beauty such as that, a girl the very image of his mother; if that had kept him away, the knowledge that Jon had claimed her would never have. He doomed Arya the day he looked at her, and he was a fool to not have realized it sooner.

“Mighty Jon,” his father taunts, “silenced by a woman.” He goes to stand behind her, curling a wisp of her hair in between his fingers. “We do have a thing for Stark women it would seem,” Rhaegar mocks, almost provoking him back into battle. “Tonight, I’ll have her give me a bath,” he says airily, “and then, who knows?”

Jon thinks a million things in that moment, each more murderous than the last, but Athena guards his tongue and his blade well, so all he says is, “I will not fight for you.” He gives Arya one last look before he leaves the tent.

***

Time passes by slowly for him without fighting, without Arya. Each day he sees the men coming back to camp, talking of what Southroner has fallen and what Northerner has been doomed to hell. Some men glance at him in apprehension, but most look at him with longing. Sam Tarly pleads with him, and Theon Greyjoy and Gendry Baratheon of course, but nothing will persuade him to fight for his father again, not even Aegon or Ned Dyane’s impassioned pleas.

It is months after, when they are neither losing nor winning the war, that Sam comes again to apologize on behalf of Rhaegar. “The man sends another to make his apologies,” Jon scoffs. “I want Arya back,” Jon intones, “that is the only apology I will accept from your king.”

A month more of heavy losses and dwindling resolve pass before she sweeps into his tent, bruised and bloody, but blessedly untouched. He says nothing at first, more shocked than anything that his stubborn father would let her go, but pleased nonetheless. He takes her hand, leading her to the bath that has been prepared for him. Slowly, he frees her from her rags, guiding her into the stinging heat of the water. It soothes her, and soon enough, she sighs as the tension from her shoulders unfurls. He washes her face, then her legs and arms tenderly, affectionately. He’d be a fool to act as if pride was the only reason he did not want his father to have her. No, the truth is that he has come to care for her, need her even, and that frightens him. Though it had only been a few weeks, he relished the time when the armies would call a truce for the day and he could go back to her. Something about her, even her flaming words and burning temper, had enticed him. War and death and suffering were all around them, but Arya had made him forget, even if just for a few moments. He had never known peace in his life. A child of demigods blessed by both the old and new faiths, he was born to suffer, to grapple with divine things, but Arya made his tent feel like home, calmed the war raging in him between his dragon and his wolf.

“I didn’t know you could be like this,” Arya utters delicately, her words stunning him out of his daze.

“Like what,” he questions, lifting a corner of his mouth up in invitation?

“Soft,” she answers, almost bashfully.

“Only with you,” he tells her, just as shy but utterly sincere. Tenderness flares in his chest at the way she looks to him then, as if he is just and man and she is just a woman, no prophecies or pride to divide them. He dares to dream of a different life looking into her face just now, and that is a dangerous thing indeed, the hope he finds in Arya’s eyes and feels in his soul.

They stay up all night after that, talking and laughing and dreaming. What he dreams for, he does not know, and neither does she, but the tension it causes between them is electric, more powerful than the thunderbolts of almighty Zeus himself. 

His life is more filling after that night. It’s still a war going on, and the wise Samwell must convince him to fight for his father time and time again, and by the gods it’s not like he isn’t fighting with Arya when he gets back to his tent. But fighting with her is much sweeter than fighting the rest of the Northerners. His fights with Arya end in passionate embraces and gentle touches that have nothing to do with washing away thoughts of battle from his mind. If anything she reminds him of his shame all the more now. Every man he kills with brown hair, he thinks, _is this a man Arya knew, one she called friend?_ It tears at him. He wishes he could run away with her. But then what? He would be leaving all his countrymen to die, and his father’s greed would see them all undone. And if he stays? He has no future, he knows this, what would become of Arya when he is dust? He should send her back to her father now, but that spells doom as well. She’d never allow herself to be sent away and when Winterfell does finally fall, she’d be there anyway. The only thing to do is fight until it is time to die. Maybe then she’ll listen, maybe then she’ll run far away from this place and never look back.

***

It’s the fifth year of this bloody war, and he does wonder how Aegon could still even want Daenerys after all this time. Their aunt had been a beauty, he remembers, even in childhood, and her temper had been sweet. That Aegon had loved her to ruin back then, Jon could understand. But now? She’s sat on the walls of Winterfell day after day, watching battle after battle, even watched Aegon and Brandon fight for her, shameful though it was that Aphrodite had intervened. It frustrates Jon endlessly. But he knows it is nothing less than what he would do if Arya were to be taken from him. He’d burn the world for this girl, and that scares him. Love was never a part of the string the Fates have weaved for him.

But why should he have to kill, to die to for Daenerys and Aegon and Brandon and even his father? To kill men and watch them die, to tear his soul in two, to raid lands in hopes of starving children so they will not live to one-day raise arms against him, to see women get raped and beaten—this is the legacy the oh mighty old gods and then new would leave him. It makes him sick now, but it had not always been thus. Once upon a time, he had dreamed of it, of the heroic feats of spilling a man’s lifeblood, the blessed relief of dominating lesser men. But now, he wishes he had a different fate, one that would protect Arya and give him a long life of obscurity.

What a joke all his heroic notions have turned out to be, he thinks as he fastens his armor tight around him. War is no more honorable than fishing or sewing or weaving. Sometimes it is a necessary evil and something he is even good at, but after having lived through it, he is wary of any man who would still enjoy it.

“Jon,” his Arya calls to him, a pile of furs upon her naked body in his bed. “Jon, what’s the matter?” She can sense something is off with him, and that is enough to make him hate the gods and Fate even more. Every gift they ever gave was poisoned. Lann the Clever and his cunning, Bran the Builder and his strength, and even him, his “blessed” swift feet carrying him closer to his doom, closer to her teasing smiles and understanding eyes and comforting arms. They’ve torn him apart just to have her fix him up.

He sits beside her, caressing her long brown locks as they spill out over the pillow. “Do you ever want to just run away from it all?” She sits up straightaway, her breasts on full display and he is tempted to touch them, to squeeze the nipples and kiss her until they both are lost in one another.

“No,” she shakes her head softly, biting her lip. A sign that she is nervous about what she will say next. “We cannot escape our fate,” she groans softly, “I wish that we could. But the gods have marked a path for all of us, and we are destined to follow it.”

He sneers at that, “my path leads to death. How is that just? Do I deserve such a fate?”

“They fated us to be together as well,” she tries gently. And how different she is now from that brash girl who had once entered his tent, defiant, a lone wolf against a heap of men. He knows now that they had all been sheep to one such as her.

“Oh, what and that makes up for it then?” Jumping from the bed, he makes to gather his sword and shield to be on his way to the fighting.

“No,” she shouts, all anger and wildfire right back at him. “No it doesn’t. It never could! You have no idea the pain you cause me,” a tear escapes her cheek. The sight of that one tear does more to hurt him than every blow he’s ever had.

“Arya,” he drops his sword and shield immediately, rushing to her side to cup her cheek.

“They’re ready for us,” Ned enters the tent breezily. Jon shields Arya in her nakedness quickly, unwilling to leave her.

“I don’t care,” he says still holding her weeping body to his breastplate tightly.

“Jon,” Ned looks stricken, “Sam warned us to tread carefully just now. Your father is—“

“My father can wait,” Jon says, far more patient because it is Ned, his friend, and not Aegon or Gendry or Theon or Sam himself in his tent just now. “Go on without me. Or must I win the _whole_ war for him?” He lifts an eyebrow challengingly, but mercifully Ned leaves without another word.

“You should go,” Arya says, pushing off of him to find her dress.

“Not until you tell me how I’ve hurt you,” he replies, resolute. “Whatever I’ve done, I’ll make amends somehow.”

“You can never make amends for the men you’ve killed, the horror you’ve caused,” she foams at him.

“Your bloody brother is the reason this war even started! Brandon stole Daenerys from Aegon!”

“I know this may be inconceivable to you, but women aren’t cows or bales of hay! You can’t steal someone! Dany is here because she wants to be,” and there it is. The truth he has known all along. It makes him angry to hear it pour so easily out of her lips. He will die for Aegon to win back a woman who does not even love him, he will lose Arya over the whims of his aunt.

“And the soldiers dying every day? You think they want to be here?” Jon refuses to back down now. It’s the first time they’ve ever truly talked about the reason for the war, and he rages at the injustice of it all.

“Well I know you do! You cannot change who you are,” she laughs nastily, “nor your nature. You’re a killer, a Southron Westerosi soldier, _Azor Ahai_! And I’m a Stark, a priestess of the old gods,” she cries again in frustration. “I should want you to die! I should pray to Apollo and Athena and every god who will listen to take you away, to kill you.” She will not look at him as his face becomes paler with each word she utters. “But I don’t. I pray that they keep you safe, that they protect you. Don’t you get it Jon? I ask the gods to let you kill my father’s men-- Northerners, everyday just so you can come back to _me_. And for what? One day they will still take you away from me. I pray for you and I pray for my brothers but one day they will take all of you away from me and I—“she bites her lip again, trembling with silent tears as she looks to him with such shame and fear. He lets her words wash over him, deliberately taking each step toward her until he can pull her into his arms. He cradles her head in his hands, kissing her forehead as she weeps bitter tears upon his armor.

“I know,” he whispers into her hair. “It isn’t fair is it? I’ve killed men and I’ve heard them dying and I’ve watched them dying and there’s nothing glorious about it, nothing poetic or worthy. But _this_? You and me? It’s worth more than all the gold and all the glory the gods could ever grant a man.” He gives a wet laugh, “I used to long for war, but now I hate it. It brought me to you, and it will take me away from you. Arya, I – I understand, love.”

“Then don’t ask me to run away, not when you know it won’t change anything. You know as well as I that those who would seek to escape their fates run all the faster to them. Just give me today Jon, and tomorrow and all the days you have left. That will be enough for me, it will have to be.”

He doesn’t fight that day. Instead he spends hours with her, inside her, talking to her, laughing with her, crying with her. Who are they to test the will of the gods? He will die far too soon for either of their liking. And Arya, what will become of her once he is gone? He has saved her for now, but this war will never allow her to be whole again. This is the price they both must pay, a debt given to them by the actions and follies of others, but one the gods will collect with their blood and tears.

***

It is the eighth year of the war now, and every day with Arya is a blessing. They don’t argue near as much anymore, not about anything that matters. He still slaughters men, and she still cleans the blood from his hands, binds his wounds and mends his heart with her own. He could almost be happy, it could almost last forever.

But only the gods last forever.

It starts with another quarrel with his father, no surprise there. This one is of little consequence, but he still refuses to fight. But then the bloody gods intervene again, helping the Northerners beat the Southron army back until they are at the ships. He stands firm. If the Northerners are foolish enough to destroy the ships that would rid them of their enemies, then they deserve their fate. Unfortunately, Ned doesn’t see it that way.

His friend beseeches him time and again to fight, only to be denied. But them Ned gets a maddening idea. “Let me wear your armor,” he says, “just the sight of you would inspire the men. No one need ever know it was me, “he pleads. And finally, Jon agrees. Ned has been his constant companion, his milk brother, always with Jon even when Aegon wasn’t. He cannot deny his truest friend anything for long, it would seem.

He and Arya both dress Ned in his night black armor, the red three headed dragon on his breastplate gleaming at them once they are done. He hands Ned a shield and Blackfyre, promising to see him soon, allowing him to be the soldier he has always desperately wanted to be.

He waits and waits and waits, Arya by his side as they hear shouting and cheering. They hear screams of pain and cries of victory, but then it all goes deathly quiet. Sometime later, when men bring back a body and fight over it, it still does not register to Jon that he has not seen Ned’s gleaming face.

He can’t remember what happens when they bring him the body, even Arya’s lovely voice does not break through the haze. All he knows is that Ned is dead. Ned is dead. _Ned_ is dead. And it is because of Robb Stark.

***

“Please don’t fight him,” she cries, desperately, brokenly. “Ned was a good man, he was,” salty tears fall from her cheeks, “he was good and kind to me. But, Jon—Jon _please_! _Robb_ is a good man too, and he loves Alys and their baby, and please, please don’t fight _my brother_.” She cries the entire time he puts on his armor, but he cannot stop. Truth be told, he is weary of war. He thought he could go on like this forever with her, but that is not true. Robb was destined to kill Ned, and him to kill Robb, and on and on it will go until the end of time. He loves her, truly he does, but he cannot make her see that they have no place together in this life. They will be together again, that much at least he is certain of. In Elysium, after she has lived a long and happy life, they will find each other. But today, he must kill Robb Stark, today he must begin the end of this war.

When he returns to her, she does not cry. “I knew you would come back,” she says, cold in a way he had never seen her before, “you always come back.” There is no warmth in it, and he knows it is because either way she has lost. If he had not entered, then she would know that he was dead, and that would be a torment until his father came for her again. “May the gods bless his burial, and give him the peace in death that he so longed for in life.”

He says nothing, and he sees that understanding dawns on her face. Robb Stark will get no rest as far as Jon is concerned. Her tears do spill over then, night after night she weeps, and she keeps herself from him. It changes nothing. Robb is still dead and so is Ned, and this godforsaken war is still with them, for they cannot escape it, it has clung to them like a second skin for so many years now.

Sometimes he contemplates giving Robb’s body back, if only to have her forgive him, for he thinks he might go mad with longing. He misses her, but she keeps herself from him on purpose. It is only fair, he knows, but he still curses the gods for it. Without her words to soothe him and her body to comfort him, the clashing steel in his head threatens to split him in two. Without her, the echoes of war are forever in his mind, devouring him from the inside. But one look at Ned’s ashen face always hardens his heart again.

***

In the darkness, at the hour of the wolf, the Old Gods bring Ned Stark to his tent. Arya is gone, she always stays gone now, though never far enough to be in danger, but always just out of his reach.

At first, he doesn’t recognize the man, but once the ruby glimmer has fallen from his aged neck, the old grey eyes of Ned Stark become apparent. Before Jon can recover from the audacity of the man, his enemy kneels at his feet, grabbing both of Jon’s hands and kissing them. “I have kissed the hands of the man who murdered my son,” Ned Stark says, his voice raw but firm.

“You’re a brave man,” Jon says, “I could have your head this instant if I chose.”

“You think death frightens me now? That my life is some precious thing to me?” Ned retorts sharply. “I was a boy once, I had a sister I loved and brothers I adored. The gods have taken them all away from me now. They’ve taken my precious daughter from me and now my son. Soon, I think, they will take Winterfell as well.” Jon looks shocked to see him talk of defeat so easily, but Ned just nods. “Aye,” he sighs,” I have fought wars before, and I know the signs the end is near. I’m a soldier, same as you, and I learned how to die a long time ago.”

Jon is silenced at the man’s speech. For a moment, he glimpses a life where he knew this man as an uncle, and the son he has just killed as a friend and cousin. Arya, she would have been his from birth, a beacon of hope and love and always for him. His mother would be happy and so would he, so would they all. But that dream dissolves like mist in the morning light the moment he looks back into Ned Stark’s face. Curse the gods and curse this war, for such a life cannot be for them.

“If I give you his body back,” Jon struggles to say, grief for Edric jamming his voice, “it will not change anything. You are still my enemy in the morning,” Jon admits, defeated, resigned because he wishes it was not so.

“You are still my enemy tonight,” Ned responds solemnly, “but even enemies can show respect.”

Jon stares for a long moment, nodding along in due time. Respect. Honor. He realizes that he has been fighting this war without them, and what a waste that has been. The gods gave him this fate but they did not make him cruel, he did that all his own. “I’ll give you the body,” he says rising and bidding Ned to follow him. Once outside, they meet with his men, preparing Robb’s body for travel.

Jon leaves the scene with resolve and purpose, swiftly moving through the forest to the place where he knows Arya will be. When he finds her kneeling by a tree, tears clinging to her cheeks, it shames him. Gently, he sits in front of her and takes both her hands. It is the first time he has touched her since Ned died and the act startles her, though she doesn’t pull away. He almost thinks to let the spark dancing between their skin consume him, but he pushes it to the back of his mind. “I love you,” he utters quietly, “and I must ask your forgiveness for the way I have treated you, the pain I have caused. I should have sent you back to Winterfell long ago.” He reaches out to cup her face, “but your father is here now to claim your brother’s body. Go with him, please.”

She takes a moment to let his words register, then lifts them both off the forest floor. The short walk back is tense with silence. But as soon a she sees her father’s frame, she springs forward to the man, hugging him as tears spill from both of their cheeks. She kisses him and laughs and Jon knows that he has made the right decision. “Thank you,” Ned says to him, seemingly understanding that there is more to Jon and Arya than just the spoils of war, “for keeping my daughter safe.” He makes to mount his horse, Robb’s body tied securely onto the back. He lowers a hand for Arya to climb on behind him, but she hesitates.

She looks to Jon once more as he musters a broken smile to urge her to go. Biting her lip, she approaches him swiftly, grasping at him for the last time. “I do love you,” she murmurs against his lips before she seals their goodbye with a kiss.

“And I love you,” he answers, helping her mount her father’s horse.

***

The struggle in his head has not stopped since Arya left. He knows it was right to let her go, of course, but that has not made his suffering easy. He tries to shut off the screams and the agony, but he never can. Every day it is the same: fight, kill, eat, repeat. That is, until wily Samwell Tarly devises his great plan.

And what a plan it is! The trick working splendidly, but then again, the gods were ever so useful when they wanted to be. He wastes no time in sacking the Godswood or desecrating chamber maids, his only thought is of Arya. He must find her and get her out of the city, he must protect her, see her one last time.

Finally, he finds her in a broken tower, high up above them all. “Arya,” he shouts over the carnage below, “Arya please you must leave.”

“Jon?” She asks, fear and surprise all mixed into one. She runs to him when she sees that it is well and truly him. It makes him glad to know that she is not still angry with him. “Jon, oh Jon you’re alive!” She meets him at the bottom of the stairs as more and more men seem to be filling up the courtyard below. She embraces him, stroking the scar on his brow tenderly. “You’re alive,” she smiles.

All he can see or think is _Arya_. It’s wonderful and brilliant and all too soon he feels the arrow pierce his heel. “ _Noooooo_ ,” she wails, but it does not stop her brother, Brandon—the reason for this whole bloody mess, as he shoots arrow after arrow into his body. “No, Jon, no, no, no, no, no,” she cries as they both collapse.

“It’s alright,” he promises her.

“Bran, no, no, please, Bran no,” she weeps as Brandon joins them on the stairs where Jon has fallen.

“Arya, Arya it’s alright,” Jon grabs her hand, pulling her down to his level with the last strength he has left. He kisses her lips again and again until he feels death coming to take him. “You gave me peace in a lifetime of war,” he says, hoping it will release the ache in her soul once he is gone. His destiny had made no mention of Arya Stark, but she had come into his life like a shooting star, bright and precious and gone too soon. She had been magic to him, the calm after the storm, the rain after a fire, the light that breaks the darkness. War had always been his fortune, but she had brought him love.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so first off, I know Troy the movie is not an accurate telling of The Iliad, but for the purposes of the story, it worked to adapt the narrative in terms of Jonrya to use the movie and not the epic. 
> 
> And I started to do Sam as Patroclus but he gives me more Odysseus vibes for some reason and Jon and Edric are actually milk brothers in the books, so there you go. And Robb is just such a Hector type character to me so Bran had to be Paris by default (but I do love Bran).
> 
> Also, I know that the only real pairing in The Iliad is Patrochilles (and I support it 1000%). 
> 
> There will be a part two to this story on Day 4 - Myth, so this is not the end and all hope is not lost!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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